I Know You're Not Okay
by CamsthiSky
Summary: Bruce is home, Tim is panicking, and Dick is missing. That is, until Bruce finds Dick crying his eyes out in the cave. Sequel to "Why is Tim the Only One With Any Tact?" rated for language. Part 2 of Tact


**Here it is! This is the sequel to "Why is Tim the Only One With Any Tact?" I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, even though I rewrote this about a bajillion times. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Dick?" Tim called, pushing open his brother's door. "I got the movies. You ready for this…marathon? Dick? You in here?"

Nothing but silence answered Tim. Dick was nowhere to be seen. His bed was still messed up from where Tim had forced Dick to lie down a few hours ago—a ploy to stop Dick from passing out from sleep deprivation—and the rest of the room was empty. He wasn't here.

Dick had taken the time that Tim spent searching for the Star Wars movies to escape from his bedroom.

"Not good," Tim murmured to himself. He ran out of the room and over to the banister, overlooking the main foyer downstairs. "Really, _really_ not good. Alfred! Alfred, I need your help!"

"Master Timothy?" Alfred asked from the first floor, peeking out of the kitchen with a bewildered look. "Whatever could be the matter?"

"Dick's gone."

* * *

The last thing Bruce expected when he stepped off the Zeta Platform in the BatCave was to hear someone crying. And not just anybody, either. That was Dick, hidden somewhere in the Cave, sobbing his eyes out.

Panic tightened his throat, and Bruce took a few steps forward, eyes searching for the source of the crying. He didn't see Dick, and the cavernous walls caused the sound to echo too much to figure it out by sound alone.

But the urge to hold Dick in his arms like the teen was nine years old again was too strong to ignore. It had been three whole months since he'd seen Alfred, Tim, and Dick, and his heart hurt for them. He had _missed_ them. And now Dick was crying, and he had to find him, to just hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

It was lucky, Bruce thought, that Dick was in the first place that Bruce checked. There was the crawl space underneath the stairs, and Dick was hunched in on himself in the corner, sobbing, looking exactly like he did when he was little and used the space to hide the fact he'd been upset from Bruce and Alfred.

(It hadn't worked well. The Cave echoed back then, too.)

"Dick?" Bruce asked, pulling down the cowl and crouching down at the entrance to the crawl space. Half of him was amazed that Dick could even still fit in there. It was so _small_ , and Bruce could _maybe_ fit his arm up to his shoulder and then he'd get stuck.

Dick, dressed in what looked like sweats and a T-shirt, had his head hidden in his knees, legs pulled close, arms wrapped around them. Sobs were coming from the ball of distress that was his son made Bruce's stomach flip.

"Dick, what's wrong?" Bruce said a little louder, but still soft and gentle enough to not sound threatening.

Dick shuddered, and he looked up, eyes wide with tears, and when he caught sight of Bruce, his face scrunched up, and he crawled forward out of the crawl space, only to collapse into Bruce's waiting arms.

When Dick was little, Bruce hadn't been able to fit in the crawl space then, either, but Dick was usually coaxed out easily enough. He had been a child, after all—granted, a wickedly smart, incredibly independent child, yes—but still a child nonetheless. And sometimes, all Dick had needed was someone to hold him and whisper that everything was going to be okay.

So that's exactly what Bruce did.

"Hey," Bruce shushed as he pulled Dick into his lap, curled his arms around his shoulders, and let Dick bury his face in the junction between his shoulder and his neck. Slowly, Bruce rocked him back and forth, Dick crying even harder into the armor that Bruce was still wearing. "Hey, Dickie. It's okay. You're okay."

"It's not," Dick choked out, his voice hoarse like he'd been screaming. Bruce didn't even want to think about why. "It's _not_ okay, Bruce. _Nothing_ is okay."

"Talk to me, Dick," Bruce urged.

"I can't do this anymore," Dick sobbed into his neck. "It's too much."

Bruce pushed back the alarm that spiked at those words. "What can't you do anymore?" Bruce asked. "I need you to tell me what's wrong, Dick. I want to help you."

Dick choked on his own tears. "Wally _died_ and it's all my fault," Dick sobbed. "Every single _fucking_ death is my fault. I should've—I should've—"

Should have. Would have. Could have. Bruce was way too familiar with those kinds of thoughts, and they weren't the kind he liked Dick having. Oh God. When had this even started? When had Dick started feeling like this? Just how much had Bruce missed in the last three months that Dick was talking about—

Focus. Don't get lost in thought.

"Wally's alive," Bruce reassured Dick. He'd actually heard the news from Barry just a few minutes before, in the Watchtower, and Barry had the happiest, most content look on his face. Bruce thought that Dick would have been happy that they'd found Wally. He didn't think Dick would still be mourning his death. "He's alive, and he's probably eating dinner with his family right now."

Dick shook his head against Bruce's neck. "No, no, no, no, _no._ It's all my fault!"

"Dick," Bruce said. "It's not your fault. Sometimes things happen, and you can't let every death weigh on your shoulders."

 _Don't be like me_ , he couldn't say. _Don't blame yourself for things beyond your control._

 _"Dick?!"_ a voice called from somewhere in the house above them. That was Tim, and he sounded worried. _"Dick!"_

Tim's footsteps thundered against the stairs, echoing around the Cave, and Bruce tried not to wince. He knew Tim was just concerned about Dick, but he also didn't need to _stampede_ down the staircase. What would Alfred say—

Right. Not the priority here.

Tim skidded to a stop at the foot of the stairs, freezing when his eyes fell upon the pair still sitting on the ground.

"Bruce," Tim breathed. His eyes were wide and panicked, and he looked haggard in a way that Bruce had never seen before. Bruce wondered yet again just what he'd missed in his three months gone. "You're back. When did you get back?"

"Just now," Bruce said, and if his voice was a little fonder than it should be, then well it was just because Dick was still plopped in his lap, crying and mumbling words unintelligibly under his breath. "Care to explain what happened?"

Tim's eyes flicked over to Dick before they settled on Bruce. "He's—Lots of things. More recently, there was a breakout."

"Scarecrow?" Bruce asked, his arms tightening around Dick. Was it fear toxin they were dealing with then? Tim shook his head, though, and Bruce let himself relax a margin. But only for a second, because Tim's next words had Bruce tensing again.

"It was almost all of them," Tim told him quietly. "Scarecrow, Riddler, Ivy, Two-Face, Joker—all the big wigs escaped. We spent the last two weeks tracking them down. We caught the Joker this morning."

Bruce pulled Dick in tighter. "So what's this, then?" Bruce asked, trying not to let his voice lower dangerously. This was still Tim, still a fourteen year old—it was fifteen year old now, wasn't it?—kid. "What happened to Dick?"

"Stress," Tim whispered, and he looked like _he_ was about to start crying, too. "He hasn't been sleeping, either. We—I thought he was getting _better,_ Bruce. We finally got him to open up! But then—"

"Okay, okay," Bruce interrupted. He gestured Tim over to him, and Tim dropped to his knees next to them. Bruce reached out an arm and pulled Tim in for an awkward hug around Dick's shaking form. "It's alright, Tim. Dick's been stressed, and I'm sure that put a lot of stress on you, too, yeah?"

Tim sniffed into his shoulder. "Yeah."

They sat there for a moment, before Tim was pulling away. Tim was never good with prolonged physical contact, Bruce remembered. Where Dick thrived on hugs and preened under the attention, Tim shied away and tried to stay in the background for most things. He was getting better about accepting the contact, but Bruce would never force him to continue a hug longer than he was comfortable with.

"Was it just the breakout that was stressing Dick out?" Bruce asked, the need to know everything finally getting the better of him now that Tim looked a lot calmer.

Tim shook his head. "No, it's been _everything._ He was doing so much, Bruce. Leading the team, patrolling Blüdhaven, covering for Aqualad and Artemis, dealing with Kid Flash's and the rest of the team's backlash, covering for the missing League members, and—"

"—being Batman," Bruce finished, closing his eyes.

He leaned his cheek against the top of Dick's head, feeling sick. That wasn't right. From what Tim was saying, this had been building up for longer than just the three months Bruce had been gone. This had started back when Bruce and the other Leaguers had left for Rimbor, maybe before. How had he been so blind to the pressure Dick had been under? And hadn't Bruce _lectured_ Dick about some of his choices while Bruce was off world? He remembered doing that, and Dick hadn't said a word to defend himself.

And it was no wonder. Bruce knew how exhausting it was to defend the hard decisions he'd made during times of stress and duress—the choices that no one else could make to finish the mission. And Bruce had lectured Dick for doing the exact same thing.

This was a nightmare. Hadn't he taken Dick in so that he _wouldn't_ end up just like Bruce? And now Dick was following in Bruce's footsteps, and that big heart that Dick carried around with him hadn't been able to handle the stress.

And then after all that pressure, Dick had another death on his hands. Wally's death. No wonder Dick was blaming himself for people dying. He felt responsible. He'd been responsible for so much, what was one more thing to him?

Bruce knew how it felt. He'd done it to himself one too many times. And Bruce had left Dick for three months, left his son with that feeling of responsibility.

"I'm sorry, Tim," Bruce said, locking eyes with the boy. "You shouldn't have had to shoulder that burden all alone for so long."

Tim gaped at him. "But it's Dick that—"

"Yes, I know," Bruce murmured. "But it wasn't fair to you, either."

In his arms, Dick's breathing hitched, and both Bruce's and Tim's attention snapped to him. Dick was still clutching at his armor, Bruce noted, but he wasn't mumbling to himself anymore, and his crying had tapered off for the most part. Bruce wondered if he'd even caught a single word exchanged between Bruce and Tim.

Bruce doubted it.

"Dick?" Bruce asked. "Can you look at me?"

Dick didn't look at Bruce, but he did speak. "I'm sorry, Bruce," Dick whispered. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

Bruce pressed his nose into Dick's hair. This was so wrong. He'd never wanted to be in a position where he'd have to convince his own son that he wasn't responsible for the deaths of people he loved.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Dickie," Bruce told him. "Wally's alive, and we're all here for you. Everything's going to be okay, do you hear me? We're going to be okay."

"But _Wally_ ," Dick sobbed. "And Jason, and my mom and dad, and Tula, and everyone else. I should have _done something._ "

Tim startled at that, looking over at Bruce with wide eyes.

"Jason's death was not your fault," Bruce said, pushing past the hurt that rose up at the mention of the child he lost. "And you were eight years old, Dick. You didn't know what Zucco was doing to the lines. It's not your fault. Not a single one of them dying was your fault."

 _"Wally_ was," Dick argued. "He told me. He _told_ me that everything I was doing was too dangerous. That Artemis was in too deep. She and Kaldur barely got out alive! M'gann almost _broke_ Kaldur's mind permanently! And I should have done _something_ in the Artic to get Wally out of there safely!"

"That is _not_ on you," Bruce growled. "You're human, Dick. No one expects you to take responsibility for everyone's safety at every given moment, and if they do, they need a serious wake up call."

Dick sobbed lightly again, and Bruce could tell that he wasn't getting through. Dick was too deep in his own head for his words to make much difference. "I was in charge of the team! It _was_ my responsibility!"

Tim hesitated a moment, but slowly, he placed a gentle hand on Dick's knee. "Dick. I already said this before, but you aren't perfect. Yes, some people got hurt, but that's part of the job. It's not on you. We fight, we get hurt, but we also save people. It's what we do."

Dick startled at those last words, and Bruce could tell they had some sort of significance with him, but Bruce didn't bring it up. Instead, he hugged Dick tighter.

"Tim's right," Bruce said. He wasn't good with emotions, so this was going to be hard, but it was something Dick needed to hear. "I shouldn't have yelled at you about your decisions, Dick. I was—scared. I missed five months and an alien invasion, and after hearing everything, I couldn't control my fear. It came out in anger, and I yelled at you instead of telling you what you needed to hear."

Dick was deathly still in his arms, barely even breathing. It felt like the whole cave was holding its breath, waiting for the pin to drop.

"Good job, Dick," Bruce breathed into his son's ear. "I'm proud of you."

Dick shuddered again. "Bruce, it was so much. I could barely handle it all. I thought I was going to break under the pressure."

"You didn't," Bruce reassured him. "You did amazingly well."

Dick didn't say anything more, just buried his head back into Bruce's neck again, and Bruce let him, back to slowly rocking him. It looked like he'd reached his quota of emotions for the night, but Bruce didn't let that stop him from reaching over and squeezing Tim's hand.

He hated how it had come to this. How everything had become so muddled. It used to be easier to tell the people he loved that he was proud, that he wanted them to be happy, that he was always there for them. It used to be easier to be there for them, too.

Now, though. Now, they were all so broken. Jason's death had shattered something in Bruce, it seemed like, and afterwards, he had trouble even talking to his sons. That was something he regretted with his entire being, especially seeing how much Dick had been stretching himself thin, and how much Tim was trying to support his brother on his own.

Why was he so bad at this?

* * *

"Sir?"

Bruce must have dozed off sometime, because when his head snapped up at Alfred's touch, Dick was slumbering peacefully against his chest, and Tim was laid out, using Bruce's knee as a pillow. Not to mention his legs were almost completely numb.

"Alfred?" Bruce murmured, careful not to wake the boys. "What time is it?"

The butler's lips twitched in amusement. "Past your bedtime, I'd say."

"Hilarious."

"I thought so, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Now, about your sleeping arrangements. Did you plan on staying on the cave floor for the rest of the night?"

Bruce's gaze drifted back to Dick and Tim. "I don't want to wake them up. Dick hasn't been sleeping, according to Tim, and I'm sure that Tim only knows that because he's been staying up alongside him."

"I am aware," Alfred said, his voice soft with something Bruce couldn't identify in his half-asleep state. "However, I'd like to think the three of you would be much more comfortable in a bed, wouldn't you think, sir?"

Bruce hummed. "You know, Alfred," he said as the two of them maneuvered the boys upright—neither of them so much as stirred, luckily—and towards the stairs, "I didn't meant for this to happen. I wanted to protect Dick from this, not drag him down into the thick of it."

"Intentions aside," Alfred said as he carried Tim up the stairs, "it has happened. The most all of us can do now is try to figure this out together, sir."

Bruce smiled slightly as he carried Dick into the study and out into the hallway. "Right. Thanks, Alfred."

"You are very welcome, Master Bruce. Now, if you wouldn't mind changing once these two are seen to properly."

"'Course, Alfred," Bruce said.

* * *

It was about twenty minutes later that Bruce was in the master bedroom, showered and changed into sleepwear. Dick and Tim were both still exactly where he and Alfred had lain them down—in Bruce's giant bed. Bruce had been getting ready to slide down on the other side of Dick when Dick stirred.

"Br'ce,' Dick slurred, his voice still terribly hoarse. He'd have to ask about that tomorrow. "Wha's goin' on?"

Bruce hushed him. "Go to sleep, Dick. You'll wake Tim up."

Dick blinked at him, and it was obvious that he wasn't quite comprehending what was going on at the moment. "Timmy? Where is he?"

"Right next to you," Bruce told him, holding back a chuckle.

"Oh," Dick said. "'kay. Are you stayin', too?"

"Yes," Bruce decided, sliding under the sheets next to Dick. "I'm staying."

Dick hummed, his eyes fluttering shut. "Good," he murmured. "'M glad you're home."

Bruce smiled and pressed a kiss to Dick's forehead. Maybe that quota wasn't _all_ the way filled after all. "Me, too."

They had a lot to work out, it seemed like. Bruce had blind to _so much_. But for now. For now, he was here with Dick and Tim, and Alfred was smiling at the three of them from the doorway. For now, he was here.

He was home.


End file.
